


A Song Rewritten

by Ashes_of_a_rose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternative Time Lines, Dragons, F/M, Smut, harrenhall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-22 19:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashes_of_a_rose/pseuds/Ashes_of_a_rose
Summary: Rhaegar and Lyanna. The Romeo and Juliette of Westeros. But what if their story wasn’t one of tragedy, but of life and love and family? Changes to their pasts alter their futures and make anything possible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll hold my hands up and say I’m no GRRM. Not even close, so please don’t expect this to be up to his standards. Many and more of the talented writers on this site have done a better job of this than me. But I was writing this for myself and thought I would post it here. 
> 
> I’ve read the books and seen the TV show, but I’m no expert. There are holes in my knowledge and likely to be things missed, over looked or deliberately changed. 
> 
> This is just something I wanted to read, so thought I would have a dabble at writing it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

The weak sunlight glistened threateningly on the edge of the thin steel blade as it sliced silently through the air. The young warrior danced smoothly to the left, and with a flick of the wrist, parried the blow and twisted into position behind the attacker.

_As swift as an arrow._

Heart pounding and limbs shaking with fatigue, the warriors struck, aiming a sharp lick to the back of the knee, and missing by a hairs breadth. The attacker smirked as they came face to face one again, and with alarming speed, claimed back the offensive.

The unmistakable clash of meeting steel resonating around the courtyard as the fight escalated. Blow after blow, strike after strike the two combatants spun and twisted, neither taking the advantage until the attacker landed a painful blow to the young warriors wrist.

With a sharp clang the warrior dropped the blade to the cobblestones, and yelled out a curse as the attacker landed a blow that sent her careening to the floor.

With the sharp point of a Braavosi sword aimed at her throat, the battle was lost.

“Do you yield?”

“Aye. I yield.”

The attacker smiled, and sheathed the blade, before offering out a slender hand and pulling her exhausted, disgruntled, daughter into a warm embrace.

“I am so proud of you, that was magnificent.”

“You beat me…again.” Lyanna grumbled breathlessly, as she gently extracted herself from the embrace, and brushed the sweat drench tendrils of hair from her face.

From the corner of her eye, she witnessed the moment Winterfell’s courtyard came back to life. Kitchen hands continued their journey from the glass gardens, hauling baskets ladened with vegetables. Hullen, the stable master, resumed brushing dried mud from her horses snow white coat. Guards retired to their posts, and young Mikken shoved a cooled blade back in to the forge.

They’d all stopped to watch and had once again observed her defeat.

“Aye, but it was close for awhile, and I’ve been dancing for lot longer than you.” She turned her attention back to her mother and frowned.

“A defeat is still a defeat.”

“Every defeat is a lesson learned, sweetheart. You won’t make the same mistake twice.” Her mother smiled, as she brushed her thumb gently over Lyanna cheek, and leaned down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “Now get some ice on that wrist before it bruises.”

Lyanna glanced down at her throbbing arm, grimacing at the red welt left by the training sword. Had it been a real battle, she’d be short a hand, and the thought alone stung her already wounded pride.

“Ah, my disgruntled little direwolf.” Lyarra Stark laughed as she threw her arm around her daughters shoulders and turned them towards the keeps entrance. “You’ll beat your old mama yet.”

Lyanna scoffed and rolled her eyes. But while her fresh defeat still rankled, she wasn’t made for melancholy or self pity. She smiled up at her mother and wound her arm around her waist.

“Maybe in twenty years when you _are_ actually old.”

At four and thirty, her mother, the gracious, lively, much loved Lady of Winterfell, was still in her prime. With nary a wrinkle or gray hair to her name. She didn’t look a day over five and twenty, and, as her father was wont to say, she was still as beautiful as the day he married her.

And she _was_ beautiful.

Extremely so.

Even in her woolen breeches and thick leather jerkin.

“Milady?”

Lyarra and Lyanna stopped just before the doorway and turned as one to face Cayn Dustin, a young cousin of lord Dustin assigned to work within the Winterfell household guard. He was panting for breath as he bowed and held out Lyanna sword.

“Thank you.” She smiled as she took it from him and sheathed it in her scabbard. Silently cursing herself for forgetting it.

“You’re welcome, Lady Lyanna. Milady, Stark banners have been spotted along the Kingsroad.” He continued as he turned to face her mother. Lyarra’s smile lit her whole face, as she beamed down at her daughter, and tightened her hold across her shoulder in brief squeeze.

“Thank you, Cayn.”

“Milady.” He bowed, before turning and rushing away.

“Seems your father is ahead of schedule.”

Excitement bloomed deep within Lyanna, and she had to fight back a rather unladylike squeal of delight. Her father and eldest brother, Bran had been absent for almost two full moon turns, dealing with issues at Hornwood, and business at White Harbor. She’d missed them terribly, but while she was dearly anticipating seeing them again, it was their expected companions that had her bouncing on the tips of her toes.

“You see to their baths, I’ll see to the food, and I’ll meet you at the gates in an hour.” She beamed before pulling away from her mother and darting through the stone walls of Winterfell.

“Ice, Lyanna!”

“Aye, Mama!” She called back, smiling wider as Lyarra’s laughter following in her wake.

After stopping at the kitchens and ordering food prepared, she made her way into the family wing, and burst through her chamber door.

“Milady!” Emma, Lyanna’s long suffering companion, cried, startled from her task by her mistresses sudden appearance.

“I apologies, Emma.” Lyanna smiled sheepishly, as she toed off her boots and kicked them to the side of the room. “Papa’s party has been spotted. We must make haste if I’m to be presentable when they arrive.”

“More hurry, less speed, dear girl.” Emma chided lightly as she dried her hands on a towel and stepped away from the deep copper bathtub. “You’ll not be there to greet them if you trip and break your neck.”

Lyanna laughed, and dumped her sword belt on the bed, before tugging at the laces of her jerkin. Emma was in her early forties, and had taken care of Lyanna since the day she was born. She was all too familiar with the young girls bouts of clumsiness, but it had been years since she’s been required to tend to scraped knees and elbows.

Or broken bones.

It was training injuries she dealt with now.

“If I had to come back a wight, I’d still be there to greet them.” She retorted cheekily as she stripped off the rest of her clothing and stepped into the steaming bathtub.

The hot water almost instantly soothed her aching muscles, and she sighed deeply as she settled back and closed her eyes.

_Heaven._

“Rotting flesh and ice blue eyes. A lovely image.”

“Speaking of blue, could you ready the midnight dress, and fetch me some ice please? Else I’ll have a wrist to match the gown.” She held up her arm, and smiled to hear Emma’s near silent tut.

Emma had grown up in White Harbor, the only town in the north to hold to southern customs, and was raised in the light of the seven. Despite spending the last sixteen years in Winterfell, she still chafed at the though of a lady wielding a sword.

A fact that amused Lyanna to no end.

“Aye, Milady. Do you need help with your hair?”

“To dry it, yes, but I’ll be fine to wash it myself.”

“As you say. I’ll send Hali in to help, and see to the rest.”

“Thank you, Emma.”

She listened for the light patter of steps and the soft click of the door, before she held her breath and dunked her head beneath the water.

On their journey, her father and Bran should have met up with her brothers. Ned, her elder by two years, had fostered in the Vale, and she hadn’t seen him in almost three years. Benjen, her younger brother, had been at Greywater Watch for the past two, and although he, at least, would return to his foster family, she would have him to herself for the next few weeks.

Pushing back up out of the water, she reached for the soap, and set about uncovering the lady buried deep beneath the sweat and dirt of the training yard.

* * *

 

  
“Winterfell is yours, My Lord.”

Lyanna dropped into a deep curtesy beside her mother, desperately trying to still her racing heart and the almost overwhelming desire to launch herself at her brothers. She’d only just caught a glimpse of them behind her father and, unlike herself, they hadn’t changed a bit.

Although Benjen seemed to be a lot taller now. He was smaller than her when he left.

_Not anymore._

She was once again the shortest person in Winterfell.

“Ah, my lady wife, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Rickard Stark exclaimed. His deep, resonate voice echoing around the court yard, as he jumped from his horse and strode towards them.

“Rickard!” Her mother yelped as he placed his large hands around her waist and hiked her up into the air. “Put me down, you big oaf.”

“Not until I’ve had my due, wife.”

Lyarra huffed, and Lyanna suppressed a giggle, as her mother cupped her husbands bearded face and planted a noisy kiss on his lips.

“Satisfied?”

“Not hardly.” He laughed as he placed her, blushing, back on her feet and turned towards Lyanna. “My lady.” He bowed dramatically.

“Welcome home, My Lord.” She greeting her father, her voice stoic and regal, as she curtsied again, and raised her chin.

“Have you happened to have seen my daughter?” He asked as he raised a hand just shy of her head. “She’s a wild little thing. Yay high and most likely clad in breeches and mud.”

“Not for some time, I’m afraid she escaped the keep about a moon ago, My Lord. Some say she runs with the free folk now.”

“Ah. Can’t say I’m surprised. The Gods help the poor buggers.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Maester Walys, send a raven to the Wall strongly suggesting that they seal the gates, lest she decides to come back.”

“Good idea, My Lord.”

“Papa!”

Her fathers booming laughter rushed through her, warming the deep recesses of her soul. Dismissing all decorum, Lyanna threw herself into his waiting arms.

“I’ve missed you, my little wildling.” He laughed as he spun her in dizzying circles, billowing her dress, before burying her against his large, warm chest.

“I’ve missed you too, papa.” She mumbled into his cloak.

“Aye, but maybe not as much as some. Go, greet your brothers.”

He patted her on the back, and she smiled up at him before twisting under his arm, and stopping short before two dumb struck faces…and a smirking Bran.

“Lya?”

“Ned!” She squealed wrapping her arms around her big brother and holding on for dear life. Her throat felt tight, and she swallowed thickly as he wrapped her in his embrace.

Gods, she’d missed her quiet wolf so much.

“Gods be good,” he breathed against her hair, “How long was I gone?”

“Too long.”

“Aye, you’re all grown up. Bran said but…Gods!”

“You look like a girl, Lya!”

“So do you!” She laughed, pulling away from Ned and turning to face her little brother. “Although your face looks like it needs a good scrubbing.”

“It’s a beard, Lya.” Ben huffed, his voice breaking on the last word. She bit her lip, stifling a laugh, and planted her hands on her hips.

“Is it? Looks more like a weeks worth of dirt. You’ve spent too much time in the swamps if you ask me.”

“Back two minutes and you’re already bickering like children.” Her mother laughed as she pulled Ned into her arms. “I’ve missed you, my boy.”

Lyanna didn’t hear Ned’s reply, it was lost to the heavens as Ben pulled her into his arms, and held her against his slight form.

“You’re a lady now.” He breathed sadly, holding her as tightly as he could.

“I’m trying, but fancy gown or no, I can still kick your arse.”

“And I can still kick yours.” Lyarra interrupted again nudging her hip against her daughters, making way for her to hug Benjen. “My baby boy.”

“Mother!”

The three other Stark sibling laughed uproariously, as Benjen blushed but accepted their mother’s attention. More enthusiastically than he’d ever admit to.

“You’ll need your own Queensquard at Harrenhall.” Bran scowled, as he mused her hair and pulled her against his side. Dwarfing her completely. “You’re too beautiful by half.”

“Aye.” Ned agreed with his own scowl. “Where are the Direwolves when you need them?” he grumbled falling into step beside them as they followed their father into the great hall.

“Harrenhall?”

“Lord Whent’s throwing a grand tourney. Supposedly for his daughters name-day. Father said we’re all to attend.” Bran explained as they crossed the threshold.

“Really?” She gasped, looking between her brothers. Ned nodded, and once again Lyanna found herself teetering on the edge of childlike glee.

From the letters they’d sent her when they were both fostering, she knew that Bran and Ned had attended tourneys at Lannisport and Storms End. She’d been wild with jealousy, and went so far as to beg her mother to send her out to foster, in hope of attending one herself.

Not that she’d wanted to leave Winterfell, but she’d never get to see one otherwise.

Or so she thought.

In the north, battle was taken seriously, and tourneys were viewed as frivolous displays put on by the soft, pompous lords of the south. Never would she have presumed that her father would attend a tourney voluntarily, let alone take the whole family with him.

But something Bran said, filtered through and sparked her unrelenting curiosity.

“Supposedly?” She asked, raising an eyebrow as she gazed up at her older brother. “If not for his daughters name day, then why advertise it as such?”

He sighed and shared a wary glance with Ned. A glance loaded with caution and apprehension. From Ned’s scowl, it was clear that Bran had already said more than he ought to have, and she suddenly wasn’t quite so excited. Something was going on, something big, and it set a swarm of butterflies off in her stomach.

“Father has his suspicions.” Ned answered, as he stopped by the entrance to the great hall and placed his hand on the door, “and if he wants you to know them, he’ll tell you himself. It’s nothing for you to worry over, Lya, he wouldn’t take you and mother if it was, so let it go.”

He raised an eyebrow and fixed her with his light gray eyes, imploring her to do as she was told. Fortunately for him, Lyanna had matured enough over the last few years to be able to heed a warning, and to his surprise, she nodded her agreement. But behind complacent eyes, her imagination was running wild.

_What’s going on?_

* * *

 

**Ned**

He ripped off a large chunk of black bread, and used it to scoop up a helping of rabbit stew. As hungry as he was, he hardly tasted it. He was too lost in his thoughts, and too busy watching his sister as Bran twirled her around the great hall.

His mother followed them around, giving gentle guidance and instruction. Correcting Lyanna’s posture and Brans mistaken steps. Laughing like a child as she was thrown over his brothers shoulder, and kept there as he and Lyanna picked up the dance one again.

“Brandon Stark, put me down!”

His father and Ben were laughing heartily beside him on the dais, and Neds own lips twitched in amusement. He’d missed this. And as much as he would miss his friend Robert and his life in the Vale, he was glad to be home.

The North was a hard, unforgiving land, and south of the Neck, it’s people were judged to be just as savage as the harsh landscape. But the southerners views couldn’t be further from the truth. The family that resided within Winterfell, his true family, were as warm as the hot springs that seeped through its walls. The ancient castle was alive with music, love and laughter.

It was just the family, the servants and the guards dining in the hall. No banner men, no lords, just family, and yet it was as lively as any feast he’d attended in the south.

Ned had been in the Vale so long, he’d almost forgotten it could be like this. He’d forgotten what it was to live without constant plots, lies and backstabbing.

Yes, the north was brutal, but the savagery belonged wholly to the south.

“She’s changed so much.” He heard Ben sigh, and Ned cast his eye to his father before turning back to study Lyanna.

“Aye, in someways she has.” Rickard agreed, “but in others she’s stayed the same. As much as we would have liked it, she was never going to stay a little girl forever. She’s a woman grown, and her mother’s daughter through and through.”

A warrior and a queen.

“They’d ruin her in the south.” Benjen muttered and Ned’s head snapped towards him.

“Robert’s a good man.” He defended, “He’s already half in love with her.”

“Love?” Ben scoffed. “He doesn’t love her, he doesn’t know her, he’s never even laid eyes on her.”

“She’d want for nothing.”

“Other than respect.”

Ned opened his mouth to argue further, but their father held up his hand, silencing them.

“Robert’s a brother to you, Ned, I understand that. But you’re blinded by your love for him.” He chastised. “I’ve heard enough of him from Jon to warrant caution. He has three bastards that we know of…”

“One...”

“Three.” Rickard insisted quietly, holding Ned’s eyes with a hard stare, “Is that really the kind of husband you want for your sister?”

“She has to marry at some point, she’s already sixteen.”

“Aye, she does, and she will. From an alliance stand point, Robert is a good match. Jon and I are in agreement on that. But from a fathers point of view, I wouldn’t want Robert Baratheon within a league of my daughter.” He growled reaching for his ale. “Whoremonger.”

Ned winced at the accusation thrown at his friend, his brother, but he couldn’t deny that his father had the right of it. Since his parents had died, well even before that if he was honest, Robert was rarely seen without a wine skin in one hand and a whore in the other.

_Is that really what I want for Lyanna?_

He looked away from his father and back towards his sister. The dance lesson was over, and she was crouched on the floor beside their mother, her tiny hands holding those of a small child. Her beautiful face was lit with laughter, and his heart clenched.

On the road up to Winterfell’s gates, he’d had his eyes pinned on the battlements, scanning from one man to the next trying to spot his sister. Like every other time he’d arrived home, he expected to see her there. Her long hair braided back, her breeches, jerkin and face caked in mud as she wave and shouted with childish enthusiasm. He’d been worried when he hadn’t seen her, and completely dumbfounded when he had.

She’d stood poised beside their mother in the courtyard. Her long dark hair falling to her waist in soft waves. Gone were the breeches and mud stains, and in their place was a beautiful midnight blue gown, streaked with silver thread. His boyish sister had vanished, and in her place was one of the most beautiful ladies he had ever seen.

Unlike the rest of the Stark brood, their mother and father included, Lyanna was tiny. She stood half a head shorter then Lyarra, and a good head and a half than the men. The sudden thought of her petite frame pinned beneath his friend turned his stomach, and he pushed his plate away.

“We still need the alliances.” He mumbled only half convincingly.

“Maybe not.”

He looked to his father, who was watching the scene below just as he had been. His eyes were soft but full of concern as he took in mother and daughter, and Ned didn’t envy him one bit. He dreaded the day when he would have daughters of his own.

“Harrenhall?” He guessed.

“Aye.”

“Who?”

“Not here.” Rickard sighed, then finished off his ale and pushed to his feet. “Come.”

* * *

 

**Rickard**

From his position behind his desk, Rickard Stark looked from one man to the next. Men he would trust with his life. His three sons, Brandon, Eddard and Benjen. Maester Walys, a old man who had been at Winterfell longer than even his father had, and the commander of his guard, Jory Cassel. His eyes then moved to his wife, his beautiful wife, the strongest person he knew.

And the most dangerous.

She smiled at him softly and he smiled back as best he could, before finally looking at his daughter. She was her mother in the making, fierce, protective, loving, gently and kind. She could kill a man with a smile as surly as she could with a blade.

She was his pride and joy.

At six and thirty, Rickard Stark was still a relatively young man, but he’d never felt quite so old as he did now. The realm was in turmoil, and as isolated as the north was, it couldn’t stay that way. Honor and integrity demanded his involvement, and the burden and fear weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“We might be here awhile, so get comfortable.”

Lyanna and Jory were the only two who had been standing. The latter moved to a chair by the window, the former seated herself beside Bran, and snuggled into his side when he raised his arm. Rickard sighed and lent back in his chair.

“What is said here will not leave this room. You will not discuss it, even amongst yourselves outside the sanctuary of this solar. As much as I hate to admit it, even Winterfell’s walls have ears and there’s too much at stake to risk whispers reaching south. I’ll have your word.”

A series of agreements and oaths tricked around the circular room, and his gut clenched when he spied the twinges of fear on his ladies faces.

“After hearing rumors, Bran and I met with Jon Arryn and The Blackfish at White Harbor. After listening to their accounts, I now know that those things that Maester Walys and I have heard, are more than mere rumors.”

“By the Gods!” Walys gasped, his old face paling significantly. They had both prayed for the rumors to be gross exaggerations, but that hope had been in vain.

“Aye, Maester. In the past four moons alone, the Mad King has buried seven and fifty subjects. Men, women and children. Highborn and low. He’s passed the point of insanity and the realm bleeds.”

Every face in the room turned as pale as old Maester Walys; all except his wife. She was already an alarming shade of white after hearing the tale earlier. He’d wanted to keep the women out of this, but they would be just as effected as the men; they had a right to know, and to understand.

Their men were going to war.

“Surely somebody can do something?” Benjen cried, his hands balled into fists by his sides, “The Hand, or the Crown Prince…unless he’s as mad as his father.” He spat.

_If only it was that simple._

Benjen’s life could change dramatically in the next few moons. He would be Rickard’s only son who would stay out of the war. He’d be safely tucked away at Graywater with Howland Reed. If things went wrong, he could find himself as the next Lord if Winterfell. If Aery’s didn’t burn the place to the ground.

“What would you have them do, Ben?” Lyanna questioned quietly. “If the King’s as mad as father says, then I doubt that even they are immune to his madness. Don’t you remember old Flyn? He stabbed his heir through the heart in his insanity. And the King has seven Kingsguards and thousands of Goldcloaks protecting him.”

“You’re sisters right, Ben.” Rickard sighed, remembering his horror when Jon had given him the news. “The Crown Prince has been labeled a traitor by his father. He spent a moon in the black cells for daring to question the King. But only after spending hours tied to a stake while the King decided whether or not to burn his son alive. It was apparently only his fear that his heir would return a dragon that stayed his hand.”

“His own son.” Lyarra gasped, her delicate hand jumping up to clutch at her heart. They’d spoken earlier as he’d bathed, but knowing her tender mother’s heart, he’d failed to mention the Princes treatment.

Kinslaying was the gravest sin known to man, and the King had very nearly crossed that line.

“He’s lucky he didn’t take his head.” Ned muttered, and Rickard nodded.

Since Duskendale any respect he had for the Royal family, had dwindled to dust. At first he’d held sympathy for his king and what he’d suffered, but that had died when the first rumors had reached his ears. With the continued incest, he’d been in agreement with Steffon and Jon, that the madness would filter down to the children, hence the alliances that were being forged. But if the Blackfish’s spies were to be believed, that wasn’t the case.

At least not with the Crown Prince.

“You’ve met the prince, Ned. I’d have your view of him.”

“You’ve met the prince?” Lyanna gasped, sitting up straight.

“Aye.”

“You’d think you may have mentioned meeting a royal in your letters!”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Not interested? Visenya is my hero! How could I not be interested?” She scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest. Reminiscent of the child she once was. “Do you not know me at all?”

“Prince Rhaegar doesn’t have a dragon…”

“Enough!” Rickard barked, “I’ll have your opinion, Ned.”

“I’ve only met him once, at the tourney at Lannisport.” Ned admitted turning his attention back to his father. “He was bested by Ser Arthur Dayne in the melee but he’s a skilled warrior. He’s quiet, doesn’t speak overly much, and I never saw him smile. I’d say he was melancholy, but by the sounds of things that’s hardly surprising.

“He has a commanding presence, and he’s clearly got the respect of Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent. It was obvious that they don’t just follow him out of duty. Robert doesn’t think much of him though.”

“That’s as higher praise as any.” Bran murmured. “I saw him at Storms End and he avoided Robert and his ilk like the plague.”

“Would you follow him into battle?” Rickard enquired, agreeing with, but ignoring Brans comment. In truth his eldest son, the wild wolf, didn’t have much room to judge.

“Will I have to?” Ned challenged

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Rickard admitted. “One way or another we’re on the brink of war. Aery’s can’t be allowed to stay on the throne. With Brans betrothal to Lady Catelyn and with the consideration of Lya’s to Robert, we’ve allied four Kingdoms. Something needs to be done, but we have our reservations.”

Robert, their only viable candidate beside the Prince, wasn’t fit to sit the throne. He wanted it, by the Gods did he want it, but it was for greed and glory, not for the security of the people. The Blackfish’s report on the Prince brought a measure of relief to both Jon and Rickard. Jon loved the lad, but unlike Ned, he wasn’t blind to his faults.

He’d make his own final judgment of both young men at Harrenhall, but the scales were tipping drastically towards the Prince.

“I know that there are bigger concerns here, but you’re betrothing me to Robert Baratheon?” Lyanna asked, her dark gray eyes wide in alarm.

“No, sweetheart.” Lyarra consoled their daughter quietly. “Robert proposed it, but no decision has been made.”

“I have no desire to leave the north.” Lyanna admitted softly, as she turned back to look at her father. “But you know that if you need me to do it, then I will.”

“You’re a good girl, Lya and it’s an option to consider if all else fails. But truthfully I’d not have you tied to such a man.”

“Robert would change for her.” Ned argued, proving Rickard’s silent point. “He’s a good man.”

“If he’s so good then why would he need to change at all?” Ben challenged, his face turning red with anger. “He’s a drunkard and a whoremonger, Ned. I’ll take Lya beyond the Wall myself before I’d allow her to marry him.”

“Is it true, Papa?”

“To some extent. But as I said, we have options. Harrenhall for one.”

“The tourney, My Lord.” Walys asked, steeping his fingers beneath his chin. “I did wonder. The Whent’s are comfortable, but not so wealthy as to throw an event of this magnitude.”

“It has an outside sponsor. The Blackfish thinks the Prince means to force his father from power, and is using the tourney to gather support. We don’t have confirmation, but with the recent information I’ve gather on Rhaegar Targaryen, if it’s true, I mean to offer him the might of the north.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is almost complete. I’m just testing the waters with a couple of chapters to see if its worth posting any more. If you like it let me know and I’ll post more.

**Arthur**

Arthur watched from his post as his Prince lead the Princess Elia slowly through the gardens of the Red Keep. Oswell followed ten paces behind, at hand to protect the realms heir if the need arose, but Arthur watched.

He always watched.

His sharp eyes missed nothing.

He’d marked and identified each and every threat. From the Spiders little birds, to the Princess herself. There were few people he trusted, and fewer still with the life and wellbeing of the Silver Prince.

It had been six moon since his Prince was released from the black cells. Seven since the day he was bound before the mad bastard on the throne, silent and unbroken. Only his eyes speaking volumes as they begged Arthur not to intervene.

Neither the Prince nor his guard had slept a peaceful night since. Arthur’s sleep had been plagued by nightmares, and Rheagar’s with plans. Aery’s day of reckoning was fast approaching, and Arthur would give his life to ensure it came to pass.

His Prince would be his King.

His eyes scanned the garden once again, monitoring movement, and assessing threats. With nothing of concern he turned to look back at the young couple and grimaced.

Princess Elia was a beautiful woman. She was tall, with copper skin, long sun kissed hair, and wide brown eyes. She was four and twenty, two name days older than the Prince, but with no breasts or hips to speak off, she looked more a child than a woman. One good thrust in the marriage bed and she was likely to break.

It didn’t bode well for Rheagar’s required heirs.

To someone who didn’t know the Silver Prince as well as Arthur did, he obvious apathy towards the Princess would be a sure sign of his disinterest.

But Arthur _did_ know him well.

Rheagar had a distinct lack of interest in _any_ member of the opposite sex. He was no green boy, he’d bedded a woman or two in his youth, but it was for relief rather than attraction. Never once had Arthur seen the Princes gaze drop below a woman’s neck line. Never had he seen him smile or flirt with a woman.

Duty, succession and the welfare of the realm weighed too heavily on his shoulders, and that was what the Prince would marry for. Not for love, lust or comfort, but for alliance and the safety of his people.

Dorne has offered him twenty thousand spears and a wife, and the only thing that would stay his hand was Elia fragility.

_The dragon has three heads._

It was a prophesy Arthur had heard time and again from Rheagar’s lips. The Prince that was Promised, and the Song of Ice and Fire. There was no way that the Princess could birth three children. He just hope to the Gods that Rheagar could see that.

Getting into bed with Dorne, in more ways than one, was not in his best interest. Even as a Dornishman himself, Arthur could admit to that.

Dorne held itself separate and above the seven kingdoms, and never formed alliances of their own. Him taking a bride from the desert would bring him naught but the twenty Spears they had promised. If Elia died in childbed, which Arthur feared she would, then they’d hold it over Rheagar for the rest of his life, and his one alliance would be lost.

But his options were slim. Health-wise, Arthur had to admit that even Cersei Lannister would have been a better choice than Elia Martell. But she came with an even bigger threat to Rhaegar than the Dornish. She was equity as beautiful and more robust, but she came with Tywin Lannister, who had an ambition for the throne himself.

Aery’s rejection of Tywin’s proposal had been a blessing. As soon as Cersei had birthed an heir and a spare, Rhaegar would have found himself with a knife in the back.

But who did that leave? Of the remaining Lord paramounts, only Houses Tully, Stark and Tyrell had daughters. Hoster’s eldest was apparently betrothed to the Stark heir, and Rickard’s daughter was said to be half wildling. The Tyrell girls were most likely the best option, but would the King allow it? Despite their wealth, they were youngest house in the realm, still with stench of stewards clinging to their skin.

He may have labeled his son a traitor, but he wouldn’t have Targaryen blood weakened by lesser nobility. He was furious enough that his wife hadn’t given Rheagar a sister to marry.

If only the Prince didn’t need alliances, he could chose he own wife after his father was dethroned.

Harrenhall was the key. If he could garner enough support there, he could strike with an army at his back, and be granted more freedom to chose. Yet someone was bound to hold him to ransom for their men at arms.

Just like Dorne had.

Sighing, Arthur continued his watch, and pushed the though of marriage from his mind. He was starting to sound like a mother hen, even if it was only to himself.

* * *

 

**Rhaegar**

He ran his hand slowly though the candle flame, feeling the warmth lick at his skin, waiting for the pain that never came. He’d first reached into the flames the night he was released from the black cells. In his despair, he’d wanted to know how it would have felt had his father truly burned him alive.

It was nothing like he had expected. He’d heard the screams, smelt the stench of chard human flesh more time then he could count. Yet when he’d placed his own hand in the fire, the only thing that had singed was his tunic and the hairs on his arm. He’d thought himself teetering on the edge of his own madness, until Arthur had burst in and pulled his unblemished hand from the flames.

His friend had stared at him in wonder, before upending a pitcher of water over the flames dancing up his arm.

_Fire made flesh._

_The last dragon._

His mother and father could burn. He’d seen the scars left from that faithful night at Summerhall; the night he’d been born amidst salt and smoke. But maybe the Pyromancer’s Piss was different. It was an unnatural, Godless substance that had no place in the world. It belonged in the deepest pits of hell, beside the King.

“My Prince?”

Rheagar snapped his hand from the flame, and glanced at the black soot on his palm, before wiping it on his breeches and giving Jon his attention.

“Princess Elia?” Jon prompted, attempting to further their conversation. Jon Connington, a close friend, and the current Hand of the King, was one of the few people in favor of the match. It was he who had brought Dorne’s proposal to Rhaegar, he who had approached them in the first place.

Without permission.

“She seems…adequate.” He conceded. She was beautiful enough he supposed, but a pretty face was irrelevant when it came to him choosing a wife. He needed soldiers and heirs, and he wasn’t sure she could provide enough of either.

“Adequate? She’s a Princess in her own right, she’s beautiful and smart…”

“…and feeble.” Arthur interrupted from his stance by the wall; voicing Rhaegar’s biggest concern. As far as he could tell, Jon couldn’t have chosen a worse candidate for queen. If he’d fucked this up as spectacularly as he suspected, he might just have gotten them all killed. He may as well have gone to the King directly and told him their plans.

In this case, adequate was completely inadequate.

“She brings Dorne into the fold.”

“Yes, until she dies attempting to birth an heir!”

“Doran knows too much. If Rheagar was to reject her now, what’s to stop him from revealing what he knows?” Jon argued, backing himself into a corner, as Rhaegar sat back and watched the two men argue their points.

In some ways, Elia Martell was more acceptable then most woman he’d met. If he wasn’t so concerned about her health, he’d be tempted to enter talks with her brother. She had a kindness about her that would serve his subjects well and she came with a hefty dowery. But he wasn’t blind to her other, less detrimental faults.

Being from Dorne, he’d have every reason to doubt her innocence. She knew how to play a man, she’d been trying to tempt him for the last few days. She was manipulative and vain….not on the scale of Cersei Lannister, but their effect on him were just the same. He could read the greed and possession clearly in her hazel eyes. She wanted to be queen more than she wanted him.

But he wanted to be King, more than he wanted her, so in that respect they were equal.

Well maybe _want_ was the wrong word. He didn’t _want_ to be King. He never had. But the realm needed him to step up to the responsibility, to free it from the chokehold his father held it in.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Is she truly as…fragile as she appears?” Rhaegar demanded, his eyes flicking between the two men. Jon looked away, and he knew.

“She is, my Prince.” Arthur answered in Jon’s stead. “Ashara has known her from childhood, she’s been known to take to her bed for months at a time with one ailment or another.”

“So childbearing _would_ kill her?”

“Maybe, or maybe not. We won’t know unless you try.” Jon argued, finding his voice. Rhaegar’s eyes flashed and he glared at his friend with utter contempt.

“I won’t have her death on my hands, Jon. Contrary to popular belief, I am _not_ my fathers son!” He growled, his hands slamming down on the table “You were obviously aware of this before you approached Doran, what the fuck possessed you?”

“You need alliances.”

“And I need heirs. There are precisely _five_ Targaryen’s in the world. _Five,_ Jon! Of those five, one’s an old man bound to his vows, one’s a tyrannical madman, one’s neigh on wilted away through fear and abuse, another, at five, already shows signs of cruelty, and then there’s me!

“I don’t want the throne, Jon but I won’t shirk the responsibility. Part of that means ensuring that the realm knows a time of peace, security and prosperity. The only way for me to do that is to secure heirs, and more than one. I need a wife as strong in body as she is in mind, and Elia Martell is apparently not that woman.”

“But Doran…”

“Need’s know nothing until after Harrenhall.” Arthur stepped in. “We leave in seven days, and you’ll play the game with Elia and Oberyn until we’ve secured more alliances, Connington. With the Gods own luck we can set the plans in motion upon our return and we won’t need the Martells.”

“From your lips to the Gods own ears, my friend. But I still need to take a wife…who else is there?” Rhaegar sighed leaning back in his chair.

“Lysa Tully, Lyanna Stark, or one of the Tyrell girls.”

“The ugly sister, a frozen wolf bitch or a stewards byblow…well done Ser.” Jon sneered toward Arthur, igniting Rheagar’s simmering wrath.

“You’ve said quite enough, Jon. Despite your obvious prejudice, those ladies belong to houses greater than your own, so I suggest you keep your opinion to yourself. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly, You Highness, but I’d like to make known that Lord Robert is petitioning for the Stark girl. From the way he talks, he won’t give her up without a fight.”

“And yet you slander your Liege Lord’s potential wife? I hear my cousin’s handy with his hammer…I’d mind my words if I were you.” Rhaegar threatened.

Jon’s attitude came as no surprise, Rhaegar wasn’t oblivious to the affections the man held for him. Most days he could ignore its existence, but he was going too far. What was he hoping? That Elia would provide the required heir and a spare, then promptly die to make way for him? He should know by now that it would never happen.

He was content to turn a blind eye to Jon’s preferences, but Rhaegar himself would never be that way inclined. It was the machinations of women, their desire for his crown, and their fathers ambitions, that disgusted him. Not what lay between their legs. He was a man, and he had a mans needs and desires, but he’d buried them deep long ago, right beside his need for love and affection.

Sexual relief he would get occasionally from his wife when he married, the rest he’d get from his children.

“I think we’re done here.” He sighed pushing to his feet. “As cruel as it is, I’ll arrange for Elia to have lunch with the Queen and I this week, that should be enough to keep Oberyn content. But it’s down to you, Jon to delay possible marriage talks. Arthur, I need for you to arrange eyes and ears on the ladies. Lord Whent has confirmation that each of their families will be at the tourney. I’ll judge their fathers positions there, but I need an unbiased view of their daughters. I won’t stand for further surprises or delays.” He flashed a look at Jon on the last note, his indigo eyes displaying his displeasure with the turn of event with Elia.

“I’ll see it done, my Prince.” Arther nodded.

“What of Lord Robert?”

“Are the marriage contracts signed?” He asked raising an eyebrow at Jon. He was really trying his patience.

“No.”

“Then unless the Lady Lyanna is madly in love with the man, he’s no concern of mine.”

Oswell was waiting, with a burning torch, at the entrance to the underground passage that would lead them back to the keep. At one end was Rhaegar’s solar, on the other was the old hut they’d been meeting in. The Kings Master of Whispers, Lord Vary’s hadn’t been in Kingslanding long enough to discover all of the passageway, but he’d found most.

Fortunately this one had one entrance and one exit, and with Oswell standing guard, the slimy little eunuch would be bereft of little birds tweeting in his ear.

* * *

 

“Viserys, what are you doing?” Rhaegar asked, eying to two small boots sticking out from beneath their mother’s couch. It wasn’t often that the young prince was seen in the Queens chamber. His high energy, and frequent tantrums, were often too much for the Queen. She lacked the strength to deal with him, and she had enough bites and stretches from her husband.

She couldn’t bare them from her youngest son.

“I’m looking for Balerion.” Came the muffled voice, high pitched and frustrated. “He keeps escaping.”

“Who’s Belerion?”

“My kitten.”

_By the Gods!_

Rhaegar was not particularly armored with animals, he hadn’t been since he was bitten by a dog when he was younger. But handing over such a defenseless critter to his brother was beyond cruel.

He’d seen what happened to his last cat.

“Got him!” Visarys cheered as he shuffled out from beneath the couch. The kitten, a tiny black ball of fluff, yowled in distress as Visarys held it up in the air by its tail, and marched towards to window.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rhaegar snapped, crossing the distance quickly and extracting the terrified kitten from his brother grasp. It attempted to scramble away, but he held it securely against his chest and glared down at his brother.

“Give him back! He’s a dragon. I wanted to see if he could fly yet.”

“He’s a cat, Visarys. Cat’s don’t fly, they fall.”

_To their deaths from this height!_

“So?”

“So?” Rhaegar mimicked, his stomach churning in disgust. The madness already had Visarys in its grasp. They did what they could to temper his behavior, but no matter how hard they tired they could not change his nature.

His complete lack of empathy, and the sick enjoyment the child got from hurting animals was reprehensible, and Rhaegar had no idea how to deal with him. He was one more blight on the Targaryen name, one that couldn’t become known to the kingdoms. It would take years of peace and carful political movements to restore the realms trust in his family’s reign. One more sign of madness, and from Rhaegar’s current heir no less, and he’d have a rebellion on his hands.

It was just one more reason to find a wife, and quickly. He could only pray to the Gods that with new blood, he’s own children would escape the clutches of insanity.

“Give it back!”

“No, Visarys. Until you acquire a shred of human decency, there’ll be no animals of any kind available to you. Do I make myself clear?” He growled.

“When I’m King, I’ll throw all of the cats out of the window. You won’t be there to stop me because you’ll be dead! I hate you!” Visarys screamed, throwing his slight body weight against Rhaegar’s legs. Before he could shake him off, his tiny arms wrapped around Rhaegar’s thigh and he sank his teeth into the muscle.

“You vicious little bastard!” Rhaegar spat through clenched teeth, as he grabbed the back of Visarys’ tunic and hauled him up into the air. He twisted his skinny little body, attempting to kick and swipe at his older brother, while threats of death poured from his lips.

“What’s going on here?” His mother’s soft voice floated through the room, as she rushed towards them. “Rhaegar what are you doing?” She demanded as she attempted to reach for Visarys. Rhaegar thrust the kitten into her hands, before she could protest further, and dragged his brother, kicking and screaming, into the bedroom.

He threw him onto the bed, then stormed out of the room, slamming and locking the door behind him. His leg was throbbing. He had no idea if the little cunt had broken the skin, but he’d definitely left a bruise.

“I was attempting to prevent more needless death.” He hissed as he moved back towards her. She was shaking, and staring over his shoulder toward the bedroom door. Visarys was already throwing a fit. Screaming and banging on the door to be let out. “Who gave him a cat?”

“I did.” She whispered and Rhaegar clenched his teeth. Of course she did. Visarys temper frightened her, and anything he demanded was given to him without question. All to prevent a tantrum.

“Well it almost ended up out of the window.” He sighed, extracting the cat from between her shaking fingers. He couldn’t leave it with her. It would be back in his brother cruel hands before nightfall. “You need to learn how to deal with him. You’re the only one who can.”

All of the handmaidens employed to take care of him, were too frightened of his father to ever bring down discipline. It was only Rhaegar that did, and he was too busy to spend more that fleeting moment with him.

“I cannot.”

“Well maybe a week in the black cells will temper him some.”

“Rhaegar, you can’t…it’s cruel, and your father…”

“Cruel?” He scoffed shaking his head. “He’s five name days old and he’d already put the fear of the Gods into everyone within his vicinity. How do you think his temper will manifest itself as he grows? It’s animals he torture’s now, how long before its woman and children?”

The Queen paled as her son hit her with her deepest fears, but he couldn’t find it within himself to feel guilty. She suffered more at the hands of his father than anyone else, she should be doing more to prevent the same happening to other women in the future.

His hands were more or less tied. While his father still sat the throne he was limited as to what he could do. But once that madman was dealt with, he’d find a way to deal with his offspring.

“Did you come here for a reason?” The Queen asked quietly, her eyes still locked on the door. Rhaegar sighed again and sat down opposite her.

“Yes. I was hoping you would send an invitation to The Princess Elia to dine with us one afternoon.” He admitted, as he ran his fingers through the soft fur of the shaking kitten.

She looked up at him then, a flicker of hope dancing in her haunted eyes. He hated lying to her, and he’d be sick to eradicate her happiness, but she was dismal at deception. Her soft heart wouldn’t allow her to participate in the mummery.

“You’re finally talking a wife?”

“I’m considering it. I’d like to get to know her a little better before I make a final decision.” He lied. He’d already decided against Elia, it was finding a different bride that was on his mind now, and he’d have to act quickly in that.

Since his release from the black cells, his father had taken little and less interest in him. Oh, he watched him, traitor that he was. Vary’s little birds were always within hearing distance. But other than rejecting the Lady Ceresi as his bride, he was being left to chose on his own.

The dismissal of Tywins proposal was laid out as a punishment for the Warden of the West for daring to steal Johanna Lannister from him. But his moods changed with the wind, and if Rhaegar didn’t chose someone soon, he was sure that it would be taken away from him.

“That’s wonderful, darling.” She beamed, reaching out to touch his knee. “I’ll arrange it for the day after tomorrow.”

* * *

 

**Lyanna**

“Why do you do it?” She asked Bran quietly, throwing him a quick glance before looking back along the road. They were eight days into their journey to Harrenhall, and with so much time to think as she rode, the question had been eating away at her.

He was the only person she could think to ask, and it was the first time she’d plucked up the courage to approach him.

“Do what?”

“Bed down with whores.”

“Lyanna!” He chided, his deep voice laced with shock and disapproval. “You can’t ask me that.”

“Who else am I going to ask?” She demanded, looking at him again. “If I do end up married to Lord Robert, I want to at least try to understand why. Everybody will know he does it and they’ll judge _me_ for it. But will it be my shame to carry or his own?”

“You won’t end up married to Robert.” He dismissed her with a growl.

“You don’t know that. It’s still an option, and if I’ve got a single hope of being happy married to such a man, I need to know. Short of murder, is there anything I can do to stop him? And if I can’t, then how do I learn to live with it, if I don’t understand it?” She begged helplessly.

She was truly miserable at the thought. She never expected to marry for love. She was the Warden of the North’s only daughter. She was bound to be used in some political maneuver or another. But as far as she knew, her father had never dishonored her mother, and she’d hoped for a husband of the same caliber.

Bran let out a ragged breath and fixed his dark gray eyes on her.

“How much do you know about…the marriage bed?” He asked hesitantly and Lyanna had to fight back a smile. He was always the easiest one to win over to her side.

“That you need a man and a woman and the various parts therein.” She shrugged, cursing the sudden blush that bloomed on her face. If she was honest, she didn’t know a great deal. Her mother had promised to tell her once she was betrothed, preferring to keep her ignorant apparently.

“Well I can’t speak for the ladies, and I’m sure mother would flay me alive if I told you too much. But for a man, it feels…extremely good. It’s that pleasure we chase, it’s an addiction.” He admitted, his own blush blooming as he fixed his eyes on the road. “It won’t be _your_ shame if he continues after you wed. It will be his own selfish gluttony. If he can’t curb his appetites then it shows a distinct weakness of character.

“I’m no angel, Lya, but I’ve behaved myself since becoming betrothed to Catelyn. I don’t know her well, but I won’t dishonor her.”

“I’m pleased to hear it…and thank you.”

“You don’t want to marry him.” It wasn’t a question, he could read her like a book, but she wasn’t even sure herself.

“I don’t know him, so I can’t yet judge either way. Ned sings his praises. Ben heralds his faults. But to me he’s still abstract. How can I judge someone I’ve never even met? Especially with such conflicting reports.” She sighed as she ran her fingers through her horses mane.

She might not be judging him, but she was still worried about what she’d heard. How could she ever be happy with a man who drinks and whores his way through life? Even her mother and father had admitted that Benjen wasn’t wrong in his views. She loved Ned to pieces, but he could be too trusting. He wrongly presumed that others were as honorable as he was. It would be to his detriment, and hers if she wasn’t careful.

“Try not to worry, Lya. I know it’s easier said then done. But we don’t know what’s going to happen yet. Even if you do end up married to the man, when I’ve finished with him he’ll never look at a whore again.”

“Swear it?”

“On the old Gods and the new.”

She smiled and tipped her head as he reached over and brushed his fingers across her cheek.

He was right. Times were uncertain. Everyone was hoping that the Crown Prince was about to make his move. If he did, then it would be his banners people would fall under. It would be up to him to make alliances and dethrone his father. If it was done swiftly and quietly enough, it could be done with little bloodshed.

If the speculations were wrong, and she hoped to the Gods that they weren’t, then the Targaryen’s would find themselves with a rebellion on their hands. It would mean war, and there were still enough crown loyalist to make the rivers run red.

Part of that would be from her own maidenhead.

What wasn’t being said, was who would take the throne should Prince Rhaegar be killed. But she wasn’t stupid. Robert Baratheon was fourth in line. He was the only man with a viable claim. Her father didn’t have ambitions to the crown, but if Robert became King he could demand any bride he wanted.

And according to Ned, he wanted her.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She had no desire to be Queen. At least as Lady of Storms End, she’d still be allowed _some_ freedom. She had no doubts that any husband from the south would attempt to curb her wilder ways. Fighting, for one, would most likely be prohibited.

But her husband wouldn’t always be around, and her handmaiden, Hali, would be more than happy to spar in the woods with her. But as Queen, she’d have the eyes of the realm on her and absolutely no freedom at all. Besides, it would all feel like a farce.

If the Baratheon’s took the throne, no matter how fairly won, they would be forever knows as usurpers. That was not a legacy she wanted for her children. Not that she thought about having children much. She knew she would one day, but any time she thought on them, she always pictured a dark haired boy, running around the Winterfell keep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Arthur**

“This has got Vary’s stamped all over it.” Rhaegar spat as he sped his horse further away from the rest of their party. In all the years he’d known him, Arthur had never seen him so livid. He'd been stewing silently for the last few days, and Arthur had been watching from the distance, waiting for the moment he would explode. 

“Or Connington.”

His Princes head snapped around, and his indigo eyes flashed dangerously. Arthur could be wrong, but since the moment he saw the King climbing into the wheelhouse two days ago, the suspicion was there. But this was the first chance they’d had to talk. The King had demanded Arthur’s presence, and it was his job to obey.

“Explain.” Rhaegar demanded, and Arthur sighed and nudged his horse closer to that of his Prince.

“The spider feeds just the right amount of information to the King to keep his position. I don’t trust him, not by a long shot, but if he wanted you out of the way, I believe he would have made his move by now.” he whispered.

"What, and you doubt that this is it? My father has been screaming  _traitors_ since the moment he left the keep. I wouldn't be surprised if he trapped us all in Harrenhal and burned the place to the ground."

“Varys' knows about you and Elia," he reminded him, "His little birds have been flitting back and forth since she stepped foot in Kingslanding, and yet the King remains ignorant. Why would he keep that vital piece of information to himself? He claims to serve the realm, and if that’s the case, then he knows you’re the best hope it’s has, and marriage to Elia would be detrimental to your succession. Connington on the other hand, or even Oberyn, want Elia by your side. To achieve that, they need you isolated, with Dorne as your only resource. What better way than to sabotage the tourney?”

And sabotage it they had. The King, who hadn’t left the Red Keep since Duskendale, was now a league behind them in the wheelhouse. Being beyond the safety of Maegar's had only served to exasperate his paranoia and being in his presence had been much more trying, and dangerous, than usual. 

"Then surely either Connington or Oberon would have mentioned Elia to him." Rhaegar argued, and while he had a point, he was missing the bigger picture.

"And risk the King rejecting her like he did Cersei? He holds no love for Dorne."

Rhaegar growled under his breath and raked his fingers through his hair. 

“I’ll fucking kill them.” he spat. “All that work for nothing. Any lords there to swear fealty will think it all a farce. Have they any idea what they’ve done? Aery’s isn’t wrong in his fears of a rebellion.”

“We can still salvage it.”

“How?”

“We’ll target the key players.”

“Stark.” Rhaegar nodded and Arthur could almost see his ire cooling as his mind took over. With betrothal’s and friendship, Stark had four kingdoms linked to him. It was suspicious, certainly, the Starks rarely ventured south of the neck. That the Warden of the North was creating alliances, stank of rebellion. But if they could pull him onside, they’d get the rest. “Have you learned anything about his daughter?”

“Not much. All I have is what’s coming out of the Storm Lands.”

“Robert's still boasting?”

“Aye. A bit prematurely by all accounts. I know she’s sixteen.” He admitted, ignoring Rhaegar’s wince. In the eyes of the Gods she was a woman grown, but she was still six name-days his junior. “He’s claimed her to be the most beautiful girl in the seven Kingdoms.”

“I’m sure I recall him saying similar about a whore at Chataya’s.”

Arthur snorted and had nothing to counter that with. It was true. Robert Baratheon was the biggest whoremonger in the realm, and every one he bedded was said to be a Goddess.

“Who else do we have a hope with?” Rhaegar questioned, bringing them back on track, with nary a twitch of the lips.

“We’ll need the Reach, and for that you’ll need Olenna Tyrell. She’d not stupid, she’ll demand a marriage alliance with Lady Mina and offer you a hundred thousand men at arms.”

It was considerably more men then they had dared to hope for, but as far as he knew, they weren’t battle tested. Besides, a hundred thousand men or not, the Reach was still only one Kingdom. If marriage was the price for an alliance, then Lyanna Stark was their best bet.

“Her greed will make her malleable.” Rhaegar disagreed. “She’ll get nothing from my father, and even the Queen of Thorns wouldn’t dare ask for his favour….so that five of the seven.”

“At worse case it could be four if you steal Roberts bride from under his nose.”

“So potentially we’ll have the three closest kingdoms to the capital standing against us.” He huffed as he starred off into the distance. His mind no doubt rushing through plans and imaging the worse case. Night was falling and they’d have to fall back towards their party soon in order to make camp. But Rhaegar had needed this time to vent, least he do something stupid. 

Like setting a pyre beneath the wheelhouse. 

“The Crownlands have been the worst hit under your fathers reign, if _you_ call the banners they’ll come.” Arthur offered, ever more optimistic then his Prince. “With five Kingdoms on your side it will be child’s play. With no opposition, Lannister will no doubt hide at the Rock, or fulfil some heroic deed so you’re indebted to him. And Oberyn will run back to Dorne to lick his wounds and plan revenge.”

“Or Tywin will join forces with Robert to put him on the throne and marry him to his daughter. A Lannister always pays his debts, and he feels he owes us a huge one.”

“Your first order of business is removing Pycelle.”

“Yes. And yours is talking to your sister.”

* * *

 

**Elia**

She sat beside the campfire, listening silently as Rhaegar gently plucked at the strings of his harp. She was board to tears, and longed to stretch out in her wheel house and go to sleep. But she couldn’t, she had a job to do, and she _would_ see it through to completion.

Besides his too pale skin and hair, the Prince _was_ beautiful, even she couldn’t deny that. But a gray cloud hung over him constantly. He never laughed or smiled. He never instigated conversation. And despite her best efforts, he was ignorant to her own beauty.

She was no maiden. She’d had many men and more, and was used to being the object of lustful glances, and straying hands: all with no effort on her part. Yet Rhaegar paid her no mind at all. But, she wouldn’t give up.

She wanted him. She wanted his undivided attention. She wanted his body and his cock and his crown. But most of all, she wanted _him_ to want _her_. His apathy towards her niggled at her pride. He was the only man to have ever resisted her, and it stung.

She’d worn the most revealing dresses she owned. She’d bathed in exotic oils. She’d tempted him with aphrodisiacs. She’d brushed against his arm, his thigh and his chest. But there was not a twitch in his beeches. If she didn’t know better, she’d assume him a eunuch.

But she _did_ know. She’d watched him the first night they’d made camp, hidden from view as he made water in the trees. No, he was most definitely _not_ a eunuch, and her cunt had clenched at the sight. His cock was glorious, and would no doubt remind her how it had felt to be a maiden.

She just prayed to the Gods that he knew what to do with it. It would be such a waist if he didn’t.

“You’re failing, sister.”

She jumped and whirled to face Oberyn, who was so close to her ear that she almost head butted him.

“I am _not_ failing.” She hissed between her teeth. “Rhaegar’s got a lot on his mind. It’s hardly surprising that he’s distracted.”

“Now you compete with his thoughts. In three days you’ll compete with every maid in the seven kingdoms.”

“He needs us.”

“If you believe that then you are a fool.” Her brother laughed as he sank down on the ground beside her. “Doran has offered him little and less. The burden of securing our position falls to you and I, dear sister. You need to woo him. Make him fall in love.”

 _I’ve been trying!_ She screamed silently.

“If I cannot awake his desires, then no mere _maid_ can. He will be mine, brother. Mark my words.” She growled as she pushed to her feet. It irritated her that she was the one approaching him. But swallowing her pride painfully, she made her way slowly towards the Prince.

His shadow, Ser Arthur, was stood leaning against a tree behind Rhaegar, and he glanced at her briefly before nodding and looking away. His insinuation that she needed his permission to approach, only added fuel to the flames. He was a mere servant who needed to learn his place. Rhaegar would be her Lord husband, and _she_ was a Princess, she needed _no-ones_ permission. 

“My Prince.” She called softly, announcing her presence to the oblivious fool. His beautiful indigo eyes flicked towards her, before focusing back on his fucking harp.

“Princess.”

“Will you not sing for us? A beautiful night like this, could only be improved by your voice.” She smiled as she sat, uninvited, beside him. She was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, and it made her shiver.

He was always so hot.

It was a welcome relief from the cold night air, without the warmth of the fire, her dress was sorely inadequate. It was apparently springtime in the seven. But she was used to the constant heat of Dorne and she missed it with a passion.

“I thank you. But not tonight.” He dismissed her with nary a glance. She bite back a sharp response, and edged ever closer to him. Closer enough that her thigh was resting against his.

"Shall we take a walk then? It's been too long since we had a moment alone together." She purred, and placed a gentle hand on his knee. He stopped playing, but only long enough to carefully remove her hand and shake his head.

"The woods are dangerous at night. Wolves prowl in these parts, Princess."

"You _can_ call me by my name, you know." She reminded him as sweetly as she was able. Irritation was burning bright in the pit of her stomach, and she was on the verge of slapping him; or stripping completely naked, in an attempted to finally draw his attention. 

Rhaegar nodded, but otherwise made no attempt to acknowledge her words. He just continued to pluck at the Gods forsaken fucking strings. Before she could completely lose her temper, she cast her eyes around the camp. Hoping beyond hope that the lackwit would make an attempt to further the conversation.

There were far more guards than were needed. More than two hundred loyal servants, all to protect an old madman, that already had one foot in the grave. The King hadn’t left his wheelhouse once since they left Kingslanding, not even to make water or take a shit. Poor Lord Varys had been forced to travel with him, and she pitted the man.

The hefty wooden contraption must stink to the seven heavens.

The wheelhouse was in the very centre of the camp, surrounded by the tents of all two hundred men. Two Kingsguards, Ser Gerald Hightower, and Ser Barristan Selmy stood watch outside and they’d be replaced at first light by Ser Jonothor Darry, and her uncle Prince Lewyn Martell.

Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne, protected the Prince. Which meant, with one guard short, the Queen had been left unguarded.

It was ridiculous, and she'd demand more for herself when the time came. Her uncle would be more than happy to fill the role as he main protector. 

She felt movement beside her, and turned to see the Prince buckling his harp into a leather case. She hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped playing, but she was relieved. At last she’d have his full attention.

He stood and secured the case over his shoulder before turning to face her. She smiled up at him and held out her hand, which, after a moment of hesitation, he took and helped her to her feet.

“Good night, Princess.”

Her smile disappeared completely as he dropped her hand, bowed, and turned quickly away. His shadow following in his wake.

He was infuriating! How dare he dismiss her so callously. He was ignorant to her charms, yes, but during the last week in Kingslanding, they’d walked out together three times, and dinned together with his mother. As frigid as they may be, his action still hinted toward marriage.

But since they began their journey to Harrenhal, he’d treated her like a stranger and it was driving her insane.

* * *

 

**Lyanna**

Lyanna stood on the rise, staring down in awe at the sight before her. For miles around, as far as the eye could see, there was a sea of colourful tents and banners. Tyrell, Lannister, Arryn, Tully and many, many more. People darted too and fro, some working, some celebrating and all oblivious to her eyes on them.

The Gods eye shimmered invitingly in the warm spring sunshine, with thousands of horses roaming the pasturelands beside it, and drinking from its banks.

It was amazing, but it was the castle nestling on it’s northern edge that caught and held her attention. It was so big, that Winterfell would most likely fit in its courtyard. Five massive towers dominated the skyline, yet the state of those towers left her mouth hanging agape in the most unladylike manor.

Of course in theory, she knew dragons had existed. But to actually see the product of their power with her own two eyes was awe inspiring. The largest tower, the one forever know as the Kingspyre Tower, was chard black and melted.

Actually melted!

One huge black stone, bled into the next, and the next and the next. It looked as though the whole tower had been formed from black candle wax.

“It’s something else isn’t it?” Her father sighed as he came to stand beside her, and draped one large arm across her shoulders. She looked up at him with a smile, and he squeezed her against him.

“It’s definitely a shock to the system.” She agreed. “It’s one thing to read about it, but to actually see the destruction…it’s mind boggling.”

“Aye. I had much the same thought the first time I saw it. The impact hasn’t lessened with time. I’ll be ever thankful that the beasts died out.” He admitted, but Lyanna wasn’t sure she could agree with him. She was glad that Aery’s didn’t have dragons, the Gods help them all if he did, but she’d give her right arm to ride one herself. “Now come, you’re mother’s waiting for you.”

She nodded and turned to follow her father back towards their camp. They had arrived at this point the night before, and could have travelled the rest of the way with ease. But after three weeks of travel, Lyarra Stark outright refused to present herself, and her road weary daughter, to the realm in such a state.

Their banner men and most of the guard would be required to set up camp once they finally reach Harrenhal. But as the Warden of the North, her father had been grated rooms within the keep for him and his family. She would therefore take a proper bath this evening before the feast, but for now, the stream would do.

“It will be cold, but it’s better than nothing.” Her mother smiled as she reached her at the side of the cart. “Hali and Ellyn have already taken our things to the stream, and Emma has gone ahead with the outriders to see to our belongings.”

“It can’t be as cold as bathing in the snow.” Lyanna laughed, linking arms with her mother and following her into the woods. “Now that was cold.”

“You were frozen solid for a week, and Benjen got the hiding of his life. He still favours his left cheek when he sits.”

Lyanna snorted, then burst into giggles. It had been a dare that had resulted in her standing beyond the walls of Winterfell, scrubbing herself with soap and snow, in naught but her small clothes. She was only ten at the time, and as blue as a winter rose by the time she returned to the castle. Benjen was so afraid that she would die, that he’d rushed to their mother and admitted the whole thing.

“Poor Benjen. It was my idea.” She admitted, earning herself a slap on the hand for her trouble.

“Wasn’t it always?”

“Aye.”

She was still laughing when they arrived at the banks of the stream. Hali had laid out two large woollen blankets, and Ellyn was in the process of shaking out two dresses.

Untangling herself from her mother, Lyanna moved to the side of the blanket and began the process of undressing herself. Her boots, breeches, cloak, jerkin and tunic, made an impressive pile on the floor, and once again clad in naught but her small clothes she stepped into the stream.

“Gods above.” She yelped as the icy water danced up her legs. “It’s freezing.”

“Don’t be such a girl.” Her mother laughed as she waded past her and sank straight down up to her neck. “You’re a child of the North, behave like it.”

“Aye, I am, and I'm sure I'll make a fetching ice statue in the Winterfell courtyard.” She grit out as she followed after her mother. The water was so cold that her teeth chattered, and her fingers felt numb as they clutched at a bar of soap.

As quickly as she could, she ducked completely under the water, then jumped up and began scrubbing her hair and skin. It was the quickest bath she’d ever taken. But by the time she was dry and clad in a heavy silver dress, and light fur-lined cloak, she felt clean and refreshed.

“You look perfect.” Her mother smiled as she tied off Lyanna’s two braids and let them fall with the rest of her hair down her back. “Like a true winters princess.”

If she looked the princess, then her mother was surly the queen. Her ice blue gown, like Lyanna’s, was heavily corseted and fell like a bell to the floor. The centre of the bodice was embroidered with tiny white snow flakes to match the white cloak that protected her shoulders, and the long sleeves fell wide, almost reaching the floor.

“You look beautiful, mama.” Lyanna smiled. “Papa won’t know what hit him.” Lyarra laughed and lifted the skirts of her dress before stepping off the blanket.

“Neither will half the young men in the kingdom. Oh, how their hearts will break."

In truth, Lyanna had never felt more beautiful. She would always be more comfortable in breeches and tunic, but she was slowly learning to love the dresses her mother had forced her into two years ago. They had taken some getting used to, and she would never be a fan of her corsets, but she could no longer deny that she actually liked being a girl. Especially now, as she was draped in one of the most beautiful gowns she'd ever owned. 

The rest were with Emma on their way to Harrenhal.

By the time they arrived at the camp, their speechless men were waiting to depart. Her father beamed at his wife, and whispered something in her ear that made her blush. While her brothers on the other hand were scowling at her.

“What?” She asked innocently, as she approached Snow, her beautiful white mare, frowning herself as she eyed the saddle.

“I think I preferred you in breeches.” Bran grumbled, making her smile as he strode towards her. Although his lips did twitch evilly as he saw her eyeing the _thing_ on the back of Snow. “You dress like a lady, you ride like a lady.”

She rolled her eyes, and planted her foot in his cupped hands and allowed him to haul her up onto her mount...sideways. After hooking her thigh behind the pommel, she straightened her dress and lifted her chin.

“I could still beat you in a race, sidesaddle or no.” she challenged with a smirk.

“Aye, Maybe. But mother would tan your arse if you raced up to the gates. And you’d surely dirty your pretty little dress.”

“Spoilsport.” She scowled, making him laugh as he walked away and mounted his own horse.

The ride down to the outer edges of the camp ground took almost two hours. During that time she’d ridden between her mother and father, but as they made the final approach, she fell back to let them take the lead. She now found herself within the protective barrier her brothers had created. With Ben on one side, Ned on the other, and Bran bringing up the rear. It was truly like she had her own Queensguard. But nothing she had said had dissuaded them, so she resolutely ignored their presence, and let her eyes roam around.

She had honestly never seen so many people in her life, and the party atmosphere was contagious. Jugglers, fools, mummers and singers were dotted around here and there; each surrounded by their own audience. Food and drinks were being sold and consumed. Men and women danced and played games by their tents. And children wove in and out of the crowds.

And it was only two hours past dawn.

She wanted nothing more than to jump down off her horse and join in. But she couldn’t, not yet at least. She was a Lady of Winterfell, and she needed to help her parents make a good impression.

There process was slow through the tents, but she soon found herself crossing under the gates of Harrenhal. The castle was ever more impressive up close, and she could hardly wait to explore.

She watched her father as he jumped from his horse and turned to help her mother down from hers. Lyanna almost dismounted herself until Ned reached over and placed a gentle but firm hand on her knee, stilling her progress.

“Wait for Bran.” He murmured and flashed her a reassuring smile. Lyanna nodded, and turned to see her mother and father take bread and salt from an older man; Lord Whent she presumed. A stable boy lead away their horses, and as a second and third appeared Ned jumped down, and Bran appeared at her side.

“My Lady.” He smirked as he raised his arms to lift her down. She’d been dismounting her own horse since she was eight, and playing the hapless lady was irritating. But she complied, and unhooked her leg before allowing her brother to lift her down.

“My Lord.” She curtsied with a smile before taking his offered arm and crossing towards her parents.

“My eldest son, Lord Brandon, and my daughter the Lady Lyanna,” her father announced, “and my second and third sons, Lord Eddard and Lord Benjen.”

“Welcome to Harrenhal.” Lord Whent bowed before turning to introduce them to his Lady wife, Sheila, and his daughter the Lady Sarya. A round of greetings ensued, and Lyanna made sure to congratulate the Lady Sarya on her sixteenth name day.

She was a pretty girl, with a crown of dark blond hair curled around her head, and wore a gown of soft yellow samite. She blushed when Lyanna spoke to her directly, but was everything courteous as she offered them bread and salt, and gestured towards the castle.

“I’m sure you’d like you rest after your journey. We’ve allocated rooms for you on the eastern hallway, if you’d like to follow me.” She smiled and turned towards the entrance, with both sets of parents, and two of her brothers following behind.

“I’m sure Ben would follow her to the pits of hell. If he wasn’t in danger of tripping over his own jaw, that is.” Bran whispered to her, and nodded his head toward their brother. Lyanna glanced over to him and just caught a glimpse of his love struck face as he followed obediently after Lady Sarya.

Laughter bubbled up in the back of her throat, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent its escape. He looked like he’d been struck dumb. His eyes were wide, his cheeks tinged pink and his mouth was almost gaping open.

“Oh, poor Ben.” She laughed, once again linking her arm through Brans. “His first crush on an older woman. Do you think she’ll alter his plans to take the Black?”

“If not her, then some other poor young maid will.” He murmured as he lead her towards the castle.

Bran often dismissed their brothers desire to join the men of the Nights Watch. But Ben had always been resolute. He wanted to be a ranger, he wanted to fight for the realm against the wildlings. It was the very last thing she wanted for her little brother, even _she_ knew that the order wasn’t what it once was. Yes, once upon a time it had been a valiant calling, but not anymore. Now the Watch was made up of murders, thieves and rapists and it was no place for honourable men like Benjen.

She could only pray that as he grew and started to notice women, Bran’s theories would prove to be correct.

 


End file.
